I Said 'Dangerous,' and Here You Are
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Drabbles and/or ficlets, centered around that great friendship which thrives no matter what the era. Drabble 6: Almost Persuaded. Summary: He almost stopped John from leaving-almost asked him to stay. But then, he didn't. The Great Game ficlet
1. Hero

_I promised myself I would not write a word in another fandom until I finished my Sherlock Holmes movieverse story (which is at ten chapters, 2,000+ words each, and counting, by the way), but seeing as I'm officially stuck until I can either find someone knowledgeable in 19th-century chemical factories or get a book on it, I thought this couldn't be any harm. It is, after all, one of the best shows I have ever seen.  
Oh, and big news: As of next Friday, I will be changing my pennname to OneDarkandStormyNight, or something akin to it, anyway. Just thought I'd give you a heads-up._

**Hero**

Somewhere in the back of his constantly whirring brain, a recollection drew itself up without his consent, partially distracting him from the potentially fatal situation playing itself out before him in that dark, chilly pool. His own words, perfectly recited in his unflawed memory, echoed throughout his mind louder than the half-strained command that came from his friend. As Moriarty mockingly praised the deed, Sherlock felt an alien panic rise in his chest and fought to control his physical reaction to it – the anxious reaction that made him bite hard on his lip, something he had not done since adolescence.

"_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist."_

Here now, both hands indiscernibly trembling as he aimed the Army handgun and watched Moriarty's honestly surprised expression as a formidable arm threatened to choke him, he realized that for once he had been completely and utterly wrong. Heroes _did_ exist. Real, true heroes. Strong, brave, selfless heroes with noble hearts and gentle souls and fearless minds.

Such men were rare, he knew because he had never met one – never even knew one existed – until now.

It was with this knowledge that he refused to run. He would not allow one of the few heroic men left in the world to die as a sacrifice in the place of a man like him. If one of them alone was destined to die here, he vowed it would not be John Watson.


	2. Smile

_For anyone who can't figure it out, this was set during A Study in Scarlet, near the beginning during the cab ride to the crime scene in Brixton, when Sherlock deduces about John and John asks what people normally say…._

**Smile**

When he was a child, his father left him, his sister, and their mother without a single warning. It was a blow that left a once talkative and happy eight-year-old John Watson very quiet and barely smiling. When he was twelve his mother became severely depressed, so much so that she was moved to a hospital for constant suicide watch, and John and Harriet were put into the care of their uncaring uncle. Harriet was always out with friends, and John had none, so he spent his days alone.

Harriet came home drunk one night with her new girlfriend, Effie, and insisted she be called "Harry" from then on. John decided then and there that he could rely upon no one but himself.

When he was sixteen his mother was well enough to reclaim them, and while Harry was thrilled to have a mother again, it was too late for John. It pleased every party when he became an army doctor, he thought, and was sent far away to Afghanistan. Still, however, it did not please him enough to bring a smile to his face, not when so much suffering and death abounded on the battlefields.

He awoke in a dirty, crowded hospital in the middle of some godforsaken desert, surrounded by moaning and dying soldiers and completely alone. He was wounded, feverish, and in great pain. When he was at last healthy enough to go back to his homeland of England, he discovered that his mother had died while he was away.

Harriet tried to reach out to him, but he had never forgiven her and did not appreciate being her last resort for company in light of her sudden loneliness.

So when he found himself actually _grinning_ for the first time in years, John Watson glanced over at his new companion and suddenly realized that perhaps it wasn't coincidence that they both were looking for a flat mate.

* * *

_This one is not necessarily my absolute best, I'll admit, but I do have to say that it was written during class today when I was trying to listen to Spanish 1 at the same time. I made it sort of choppy on purpose, too, so that's why it seems that way. Hope somebody enjoyed it, anyway, and there are more coming soon…_


	3. Lost

_Can you believe I wrote all of this just now, at 2:45 a.m.? Anyway, this is more of a ficlet than a drabble, but I like the way it turned out. I just love the way Sherlock thinks and feels - it's so rich and deep._

**Lost**

He had dashed out of the new sitting room, only vaguely careful not to trip over any of the objects he had lying about the place from the move, filled with more energy than he'd had in weeks as his previously idle brain was suddenly spinning with images and thoughts of fatal pills and apparent suicides and obvious murders and complex plans and hidden connections and idiotic inspectors and chemicals and deductions and clues and ideas and theories and a thousand other things that automatically accompanied the thrill of a new, interesting case.

Fairly flying on an intellectual high, he swiped his favorite overcoat from where he had draped it over the knob of his bedpost and slipped his arms through the black sleeves with elegant grace. He grasped his scarf from around the wax figure behind the door and nimbly began to tie it around his neck as he reached the top of the stairs that led to the street – and to his newest puzzle.

Just before he took the first step, however, there was a sudden, angry-sounding shout from the sitting room, and it took him a moment to break through his haze of elation and comprehend whose voice it was and what words were said. Amidst Mrs. Hudson's kindly reassuring, "It's all right, dear; I've got a hip," he stopped long enough to decipher what would make the gentle-looking Dr. John Watson so obviously incensed – nothing dear Mrs. Hudson had said, certainly. And though he was not the most sensitive of men, Sherlock was sure he had said and done nothing which would generate such a rise from the doctor about his bad leg. What, then?

Then it struck him. A military doctor, that's what John was, and one who had survived a near-fatal battle in Afghanistan. He'd read articles concerning the mental effects war may have upon soldiers upon returning to society. Who was to say that such things did not affect the doctors as well? If his first impression was correct, John Watson was a man of action, one who needed something to do perhaps almost as much as Sherlock himself did. Perhaps the sudden loneliness and lack of work were doing the same to John as what they did to Sherlock. Perhaps, somewhere past the unemotional face and empty eyes, John was lost and looking for some way out…or someone to help him find it.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. He could not explain the sudden sentimentalism which had somehow leaked into his thoughts, or the overwhelming urge to turn back, but for some inexplicable reason he did just that. He forced himself not to wonder at the groundless fondness that was quickly endearing a perfect stranger to him as he took two steps backwards to stand in the doorway.

Later, as he found himself seated in a comfortable diner chair at the Chinese buffet on Baker Street, listening to John's half-teasing rant about how he should tell him next time so that they might face the danger together, he realized that perhaps John wasn't the only one of the two of them who had been lost.


	4. Thief

_Very, very short break from all my angstiness..._

**Thief**

Perhaps it was the stress, or the fear, or the renewed pain in his leg from both, but when Sherlock steadily pulled the clean, black British Army R9A from his trouser pocket and held it at shoulder-length, aiming it at the head of the murderous man who held both their lives in his hands, the only thought passing through John's brain was:

_How did that bloody no-good thief get into my _locked _desk?_


	5. Walk

_How are all of my wonderful fanfictioners? I miss chatting with most of you - seems responsibilities get in the way of everything, huh? Well, just wanted to say thanks for all the fabulous reviews, and apologize for not answering some of them. I do appreciate them all!  
I hope everyone gets the spoilers clearly; I tried to make it obvious enough, but it seems that I'm one of the few who actually remembers shows/movies/books word-for-word and movement-for-movement, so if you don't, just let me know and I'll rewrite. Thanks!  
Special thanks to _**grannysknitting**_ for pointing out my error. I'm so thankful for reviewers who aren't afraid to help me learn!_

**Walk**

Sherlock Holmes had known only one invalid before John Watson. His mother's brother, who had been disabled as a police officer and forced to retire early, was the most disagreeable man in the entirety of the Holmes family (which was quite a weighty designation, once one had met Mycroft Holmes, at least in Sherlock's opinion). Whether it was by conceit or self-pity, it was impossible to say, but the only words that the old grumbler ever spoke to Sherlock were those when he was demanding him to _stop moving so infuriatingly quick, and show a bit of respect for disabled company!_ Sherlock Holmes hated being told what to do, and so he took no small delight in walking as swiftly as he pleased when in his invalided uncle's presence.

Perhaps it was for this reason that he did not so much as think of John's leg as he bounded up the staircase of Mrs. Hudson's second-story flat, leaving the slightly humiliated doctor limping after him as quickly as he dared. Sherlock had felt a bit foolish, and yet, for the thrill of a new, promising case, he once again entirely forgot about it as they approached the murder scene of the lady in pink.

The third time he found himself walking with John—toward Angelo's small restaurant and hopefully a glimpse of their killer—he intentionally did not slow his step, and was curiously fascinated when the ex-soldier determinedly kept up with his pace, despite the difficulty of his leg.

When they were halfway to Angelo's, Sherlock subtly slowed down and allowed John some respite, for though John's leg was obviously paining him a great deal by now, not once did the doctor let a word of complaint slip. Quite fascinating, actually.

Sherlock Holmes could not recall the last time he had walked even a fraction slower than usual, but the thing that really bothered him was the fact that he did not care a bit that he was inconveniencing himself for another.

All in all, perhaps John Watson would not be just another person in his life…perhaps John Watson was someone different.

Sherlock was not certain, but, after all, he had learned to patiently wait for the results of his experimentations. He would know soon enough.


	6. Almost Persuaded

_I miss you! So sorry for the delays! School is out in two weeks (and counting!), and then my mind will finally be clear enough to focus. Thank God for summer.  
This is obviously more than a drabble, but what can I say? Sherlock is complex. It's set just before the Pool scene in _The Great Game_. Hope you like it!_

* * *

**Almost Persuaded**

He did come so close—so very, very close. Even as he sat, curled up with a deviously convincing air of leisure before the crap reality show, pretending (with mounting difficulty—the participants were so _obviously_ paid actors) to be suitably distracted, his mind was racing, in a conflict with itself that he had never quite experienced before. A part of him—the logical, scheming part that had so long dominated the rest of his brain—propounded to taking John with him to the Pool (John had, if his scribbled notes were anything to go by, taken to capitalizing the name of the place). He was, after all, a crack shot, and while he was honourable in his respect for life, he had no compunction about killing when absolutely necessary; he had made that clear with the cab driver in what was now, apparently, perpetually called "A Study in Pink," and in his low threat to the Golem only the day previous. More than that, John was brave, and reliable; he may not agree with the plan to meet the infamous Moriarty face-to-face, but he would certainly not back down if it meant being there to aid and watch over Sherlock. Overall, it was logical.

But there was…something else. Something he was missing and could not quite grasp, lingering somewhere in the far regions of his mind. It was this that halted him, and this that made him answer yes when John questioned whether or not the plans had been returned to Mycroft. But _what_?

Then, John had pushed away from the desk and announced that he was off to Sarah's. And Sherlock suddenly understood.

John was normal. He was still young, and still had a good many years ahead of him. He had a nice, ordinary girlfriend who appeared to be growing rather fond of him as their relationship steadily grew. He was intelligent—by normal standards, perhaps, but that counted in a normal society—and could have a promising career in medicine once it began (Sherlock was well aware that he was part of the reason it had not yet). He was pleasant, and polite, and simple. He had a strong chance of marrying, and having a little house on some quiet, residential road, with two short, blonde children and a big dog.

Yes, perhaps it was true that he would never be entirely domesticated. John was refreshingly unique in that respect; he craved the danger and adventure as much as Sherlock himself did. But John was oddly lucky; Sherlock knew that, one way or another, he would find a way to have the serene life he so wanted and the exciting one as well.

John Watson had the chance to find his place in the world.

Sherlock knew, as surely as he knew the sun would rise, that he did not have the chance that John did. He had no place in society—not really. Even his profession had been exclusively created by himself. There were people who knew him, and would certainly notice if he was suddenly gone—Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John…_especially John_—but so what? He would never entirely conform to their ideals, and in the end, he would probably die unattached. His life was only worth the thrill of the case, of the puzzles; beyond that, he had little to offer anyone.

John stood and brushed past him, and he raised his hand and opened his mouth and almost—_almost_—stopped him from leaving. Then, he didn't, because John's life was too valuable, much too promising and _good_ to risk in such a dark war. This was Sherlock's battle, and he would not destroy the only man for whom he had ever cared because he was frightened and selfish.

He only hoped that John would forgive him.

* * *

_First things first. Golem is spelled correctly, right? As I've said quite a few times, I detest research. Even so simply as looking up the name on the end credits. *hehe*  
And secondly—I'm not sure if this is my best. It's only one o'clock in the morning here, and coupled with the fact that I am half-asleep, my best writing usually comes at around two. Forgive me.  
I hope you liked it anyway!  
Oh, and one question. I know it's random and probably strange to ask this, but…How many of you married/engaged women remove your ring to take a shower? I'll explain in the next chapter I post. ;)_


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